In the Bleak Midwinter
by Unsung Heroine
Summary: A cold and lonely Winter Solstice in the East of Beleriand, some years after the meeting of Haleth and Caranthir between Ascar and Gelion. Written for a challenge on Parma.


**Disclaimer: **The characters and places referred to in this story are not mine. The title is most obviously stolen from a movie by Kenneth Branagh (who may or may not have stolen it from the poem by Christina Rossetti) and thus isn't mine either.

**In the Bleak Midwinter**

"_The night is long that never finds the day."_** – William Shakespeare, _Macbeth_**

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**­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­****On the Night of Winter Solstice:**

**Part I: A Camp Somewhere on the Plains of Estolad**

**Haleth**

The world should be still today, sleeping soundlessly beneath a thick layer of snow and only the wind should sing tonight, the longest night of the year, when the hours are many from grey dusk to grey dawn, for I have no desire for any kind of song apart from that. It should be the only sound on a night like this, when the moon shimmers wearily through the thick mists somewhere on the horizon; on a night when the world would feel desolate and empty even if I was surrounded by thousands of people. It should be silent, voices lowered and conversations hushed, and it would only feel appropriate if it was so indeed, because then I might spend my time brooding alone without being questioned, pathetically pitying myself for things I would not even bother about when the days are long and the nights mild and filled with the heady scents of summer (or that I would not seem to be bothering about, because despite all outer appearance and public opinions I have never really stopped caring). This is how it should be, and I would wrap myself in mists and silence, and the thoughts of another one next to me, of skin on skin and limbs entwined.

But instead the winter solstice is a time for celebrating among my people, a time for company, a time for fire and music to chase away the darkness and whatever kind of demons they believe inhabit it (and fear of demons has become a very real thing during the last few years). I could not have stayed away from that, not for all lame excuses my mind could have brought up, and so I joined them around the fires, getting a little drunk on spiced wine and watching an annoying amount of happy couples dance until far into the night to greet the beginning of the time when the days become brighter. And at last, feeling unable to quell the ugly feeling of jealousy rising inside of me any longer, I excused myself, and vanishing into the shadows I made my way to my tent, and my bed, and to sleep and oblivion.

Or at least that must have been what I sought, because now I am lying here, wrapped in furs and cold despite it all, and waiting for a dream of the late autumn's sun on Thargelion's hills that I wish for but that will not come. It was probably foolish of me to leave the celebrations for solitude, for around the fires at least it was warm, and I was kept from hanging onto thoughts that would only succeed in making me feel less than content. I am a woman after all, and prone to bouts of sentimentality at irregular interims, as much as I may be trying to hide and deny it.

I will leave this place soon, I think. The open planes of Estolad begin to irritate me greatly, and I long for trees and steep woodlands, like when we still lived beyond Gelion; unaware of our blessings, before everything changed. Back in a place and time that I remember only faintly now, when I still had a father and a brother and was blissfully oblivious of everything around me. When all I cared about was if I would be able to best the older boys when hunting, or if my father would finally think me old enough to have the horse I desired. I wonder if I would be happy now if things had stayed this way, if nothing had happened in the angle between the rivers, if I had not even met the person I cannot stop thinking about, the person that probably does not even think about me at all.

But at this thought, I almost have to laugh, because reason tells me I am so very wrong in assuming that; and something deep inside tells me that – just like me – he never stopped caring either, my foolish sentimental son of Fëanor who seems so impenetrable on the outside and yet gave his heart away so lightly, to one who should not really have had it in the first place. We are far too similar, if one cares to look beyond the obvious.

It is him whom I would like to be here right now, to put his arms around my body and pull me close, so that I might bury my face in his soft hair and inhale his scent, and that we might close out the world, as if we could make day never come again. This night is like it was made for us, the longest night of the year. The sun has set early and will rise again late, and the hours between will be dark and long and it feels wrong that we are not able to spend it together. We would have wished for nights like that back in Thargelion, when we were forced to hide in the dark hours, to keep our love safe from daylight and scornful voices, and the accusing glances of people that said nothing and yet seemed to scream at me "Do you think _this _is love?"

I do not know if it was back then. What is was that first night was the drunken stumbling into another's bedroom, light-headed with wine and the intoxicating feeling of heated skin beneath my fingers, and I remember feeling very bold to whisper "I love you", with hazy mind and craving lips. I remember the morning afterwards, when he suddenly took my hands into his own and I pretended to be still asleep while I gleefully allowed myself to succumb to the completely unreasonable feeling of bliss encompassing me. Warmth travelled up my spine and I buried myself deeper into the blankets, soaking up the silence of a day that was still young. I then must have drifted back to sleep again, for when I woke I was alone, and the sheets cold, and the fire in the grate burned to ashes; and there was something stirring inside of me I had never felt before, and it was eagerly crying for more.

I do not know if it was love back then. Perhaps I simply took what I wanted in this moment. But I guess it became something of sorts when that feeling stubbornly persisted.

But Caranthir is not here and I am still cold, and thus I, Haleth of the Haladin, close my eyes and paint our picture in my memory, with imperishable paint, as if I would not care that the canvas is more fleeting like the wind. (1)

It is not so bad after all, and all there is between me and him is some leagues of empty land. At least that is how I would have thought about it when I was little more than Haleth, and life still made sense. Before somewhere between dawn and dusk on a grey day, when the clouds seemed to wipe away the hours passing, and every moment seemed as bleak as the last, and time dragged until it suddenly stood still entirely, and I knew I would never be the same. It is a reasonable thought, but I am in love (and I have to admit quite stupidly so), and one is never reasonable when in love.

But somehow, for no apparent reason, as I lie here waiting for sleep, listening to my own breathing and the muffled sounds from outside, somehow I suddenly feel that we shall be together again before long. And though I honestly have no idea where this thought comes from (and despite the fact that meeting once more will in the end only mean another parting), I finally find myself able to get some rest, and a smile slowly creeps upon my face, in expectation of all the things to come.

I am not foresighted. I am not what they call wise. I have no means to know what will be tomorrow or where I will be next year at this time. But in this night, under this stars I know that he will come. Ere the days are longer than the nights, ere the icicles have melted away from the riverbanks, ere the apple trees blossom in Estolad he will be here with me.

And I, I will be waiting.

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**II. The Fortress of Rerir, Northern Thargelion **

**Caranthir **

The hall is dark and silent, the fire burns low and sheds little warmth, only eerie dark-red light that casts long, distorted shadows on the surrounding walls. It is cold, too, and my fingers feel numb and frozen, clutched in the fur blanket someone must have had the mercy to cover me with when I fell asleep here. I find it amazing indeed, that I still seem to be able to inspire sympathy tonight, since I have been in an exceptionally foul mood ever since I left my bed this morning. I broke up the festivities for the Solstice earlier than usual, and then – after all had left – settled on the settee by the hearth, and slowly but surely got drunk on a leftover bottle of strong wine.

And now I lie here, staring at the smoke curling up into the darkness of the roof above me, measuring time in the crackling of the logs and the glow of cinders, with no idea of how many hours still separate me from dawn, and with no desire to know. Sighing quietly I take another sip of wine and pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders. I feel quite cold, and quite miserable.

The winter in the mountains has been a harsh one until now. It keeps snowing without a pause, thick and fluffy flakes, and the nights are stormy, and the days short and grey. For three weeks it has been impossible to leave the fortress, as well as to get there from the outside. In the vale below Lake Helevorn is not visible anymore. It is frozen thickly, and covered in snow.

Up here, there was little more left to do than to light the fires and cover the windows against draughts, and then to wait for warmer days. It has been a bleak time, and even today's celebrations helped little to lighten my mood. To be honest, I think there is more than one person whose day I might have spoiled, sitting in some dark corner with a sour expression upon my face. I cannot help it. I do not play pretend. I will yield no smiles if I do not feel like smiling. You can accuse me of anything you want to, but never of the fact that I may be dishonest.

It was worse than usual today. It did not help much either when I almost stumbled over one of the serving girls – a tall, pretty thing with wavy ebony-coloured hair and bright grey eyes – and one of my young guards kissing in a dark corner of a staircase. I could have well lived without the stabs of jealousy accompanying my bad temper.

I would love Haleth to be here. There it is. Her name, whispered feebly into the silence, standing in the midst of the room like a monument, like the column of smoke rising from the fire, hazy curls of tengwar spiralling around the wooden beams above me, and disappearing only moments after. It might be the wine, but I can almost imagine her standing in front of me, snow in her hair and cheeks ruddy from the cold. She lets her heavy cloak slide to the ground and crawls next to me beneath the blanket. I smooth her damp, tangled hair while we curl up tightly against each other and my last thought before falling asleep is that I do not care in the least if someone finds us like this tomorrow.

Come to me, _Atanwende_, come to me and drive the cold away. Come to me and we will talk about all things unimportant between this earth and this sky. Or better yet, we will talk nothing at all.

I huddle deeper beneath the blanket. It will be a long night. Now that I have started thinking of her, I will not be able to think of anything else so soon. I do not know how she does this, but it has been thus ever since we met for the first time.

When I think of it, "met" is far too drab a word to really describe what happened between us. You do not simply meet someone like Haleth. Someone like Haleth materializes from the wind on a grey day, stepping over mounds of carcasses towards you, and suddenly you know that things would be wrong if they were any other way, wishing to touch her _now_, and if only once, still better than never, still better than not at all. Here, in the nothingness between your world and mine, in the haze after battle, that makes one drunk as of wine, and forget as easily. Let us plunge into that illusion and exchange fates, and let my lips try the taste of the simple, unbound life that I envy you, warrior queen.

There was always something savage about Haleth's beauty, something wild and untamed that reminded me of the great wildcats in the mountains; always moving as if poised to strike and rip your throat, muscles taut beneath her skin, and something cold and hard gleaming in her eyes; a wary creature waiting for a reason to lash out. But when she smiled it was like the sun breaking through on a cloudy day, and yet I hate that simile, because it feels like using bad poetry for something that deserves infinitely better.

I have always loved her smile, and I have loved the sound of her laughter, and her fingers that never seemed to be able to keep still.

However I am very well aware of the fact that not everybody thought of her that way. When she stayed with me at Rerir there were people who watched her every step and movement, complaining about this and disapproving of that. Haleth's behaviour was considered most improper for a woman; she laughed and talked too loud, drank too much, and gestured too grandly. I guess most of them were merely scared by the notion of a female being who simply took what she wanted. "Haleth," Celegorm once had said, "would have made a wonderful man."

And even she one day had told me that men had only begun to look at her after her father had died and she had become chieftain of her people. "Holding some kind of power," she murmured, "makes even me appear attractive." But I thought of how she must have looked like as a young girl, all long legs and distant smiles, and I looked down on her lying in my arms, lithe body and steely blue eyes, so alluring that it made me feel rather dizzy, and I did not believe one word she had said.

I long for her presence now. I want to pull her small, warm body close to my cold skin until the faint light of dawn shimmers through the heavy draperies, and it may be no more than a desperate thought induced by too much wine, but suddenly it strikes me that – although it feels like there were worlds between us - we are not so far apart at all. It is only a ride of some days from here to Estolad when travelling quickly, if only that cursed snow would melt soon.

But melt it will, and once it has, there is not much that will be able to hold me back. All it takes is patience, and patience is a matter of time, and time is nothing.

I drink a little more wine, the fire flares, and suddenly, as I slowly succumb to sleep, the hall does not seem so cold and dark anymore.

I am not foresighted. I am not what they call wise. I have no means to know what will be tomorrow or where I will be next year at this time. But in this night, under this stars I know that I will come to her. Ere the days are longer than the nights, ere the icicles have melted away from the riverbanks, ere the apple trees blossom in Estolad I will be with her again.

And perhaps she will be waiting.

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(1) Loosely based on the signature of Dürer's famous self-portrait, which says in Latin (roughly translated) _"Thus I, Albrecht Dürer of Nuremberg, painted myself with imperishable paint, at the age of twenty-eight." _I found the quote too mortal to resist. ;-) 


End file.
